Discovered
“The LORD saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intention of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. And the LORD was sorry that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart.” Gen. 6:5, 6
©Jeannie St. John Taylor
Atarah eased open the gate to minimize its creaking hinges and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw no one. Stepping through the arch, she untied the thin leather straps wound around her ankles and, barefooted, crossed the warn flagstones toward the house. Before pulling open the elegant door she looked around again.
Where was Dagaar?
Customarily her Father’s favorite slave shadowed her every move, but she hadn’t seen him today. Father always claimed he sent the man after her to protect her. “It’s not safe in the city for a woman alone these days.” While it was true that violent gangs roamed the streets and lurked in uncovered alleys, Father’s slave frightened Atarah more than the criminals. Frightened her almost as much as her slave’s tales about the giants who had slaughtered her family. Atarah hated the way Dagaar leered at her. She knew what he intended to do to her.
Why didn’t Father recognize Dagaar’s intentions? He must see them. Sudden anger toward her father fisted her chest. She pushed the negative emotion away, wondering why she thought she had the right to expect anything better from him.
But she knew the source of her unrealistic attitudes: The Dream.
Inside the house, the polished green marble of the circular entry felt cool beneath her feet. Directly ahead, in the middle of the entry, a wide staircase of imported vermillion jasper swept upward to the second level of the home. Ivory dragons breathed fire along the banister, their tails winding through tree-shaped supports. A colorful frieze of the same beasts arched high overhead.
Life-sized figures of the family fashioned from pink marble by a favored sculptor skirted the perimeter of the entry. Included with the family, also life-sized and three heads taller than Father’s statue, stood a statue of Zaquiel, the Nephal who had fathered Nympha’s son.
The incense burning on the outstretched palm of the figure stung Atarah’s nostrils. Nympha must be home. She insisted slaves maintain the aroma in her presence. Atarah suspected the incense was Nympha’s way of bragging that a god had chosen to her to bear his child. It was not Nympha’s way of worshipping said god. Her “worship” took place in her bedchambers with any Nephilim or human male who struck her fancy that day.
Several cubits behind the staircase, the circular entry reshaped into a wide passage leading to garden doors and the slave quarters behind the house. A long shallow pool filled with colorful fish graced the length of this space. On either side of the pool, several doors opened to rooms used for a variety of family and business purposes. Father and his friends often retired to those rooms after one of his many parties.
Two large rooms were located just off the front of the entry where Atarah stood, sandals in hand. To her right, the door to the large room where Mother spent much of her time remained closed. Rather than going immediately to find Mother, Atarah glanced to her left at the broad archway leading to the Room of Candles which, along with the kitchen, occupied nearly half of the main floor. When Father threw parties the wall sconces and the chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling glittered with thousands of lights, casting a soft glow over the hundreds of citizens who whirled to the music of harps, tambourines and flutes.
The space stood dark and empty now.
Atarah tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs, held onto a dragon’s snout and craned her neck to look at the doorways lining the hallway of bedchambers on the second level. Most were closed. Only the door to Father’s library stood open. She could see the ivory couch piled with pillows, but she couldn’t see her father and she didn’t hear voices. Allowing herself the luxury of a sigh, she walked to the door on her right, stepped inside and closed it behind her.
Mother sat at the rug frame with her back to Atarah, facing a window that overlooked a side garden. Her hands flew over the multi-colored carpet she had been crafting off and on since Atarah’s childhood. Mother worked on the rug whenever she felt extraordinarily happy or upset. The result was an intricately patterned work that balanced brilliant warm colors with cool sad ones and ominous darks. On joyous occasions, like the day of Gadreel ’s birth, Mother interlaced threads of finest gold. Visitors to the house often exclaimed over the emotion it communicated. One dealer urged Mother to finish and sell it to him or at least hang the art in a public building where others could enjoy it. Mother refused to finish it or sell. She would work on the carpet till she died, she said, parting with her masterpiece would be like ripping off one of her limbs.
Atarah moved quietly over the patterned floor cloth and pressed her cheek against Mother’s hair. “Is Father gone?” she whispered. Mother started, then sprang to her feet and hugged her daughter. Eyes, red and swollen from crying, searched Atarah’s face. “Are you all right?” Mother assumed she’d been a loyal daughter and performed her temple duty.
Instant guilt struck Atarah and her eyes dropped to the floor. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’m so sorry.”
Surprised, she lifted her gaze to Mother’s face. “Why?”
“I remember my first time at the temple.” Mother shivered. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes and she hurriedly wiped them away with an embroidered linen. “That awful dream haunted me until I thought I couldn’t. But I did.”
Shock like a rush of frigid air took Atarah’s breath. “You’ve had The Dream? The warm light?”
“Lots of people have that dream, but they don’t take everything as seriously as you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t . . . your father. Everyone loves temple worship. I wanted you to fight the confusion the dream brings. The Dream doesn’t mean what you think. You have to overcome those feelings.”
“But I thought I was the only one! I told you about the dream when I was a girl. Why didn’t you at least talk about it with me? Why did you let me feel so . . . alone? So different? Like I was the only one.”
Mother averted her eyes. “I didn’t want to encourage you into thinking the dreams are real. I learned a long time ago that if you want success you have to conform to societal norms. The majority can’t be wrong, can they?” She sat heavily onto the chair in front of the loom and feverishly worked nearly-black purple wool into the rug. “If I’d let you know I had The Dream you would have thought all that mumbo jumbo was normal. The Dream could have destroyed your life.”
Resentment hardened in Atarah. “You should have told me!” Behind her, she heard the squeak of the outside door as it opened and closed and footsteps hurried up the stairs. Dagaar? Her heart did a faint skip and she shuddered involuntarily.
“Now that you’ve obeyed, those thoughts and feelings will fade.”
“Did yours?”
“I did my part,” Mother said without answering the question. “Temple rites keep the gods happy.”
They also keep Father happy.
“I asked you several times if the feeling that the other gods are evil ever faded for you, and you didn’t answer.” Atarah’s challenge bordered on disrespect, but she couldn’t keep silent. “But all along you knew they were evil.”
“Never speak like that! Never! We have a responsibility. Your father is right.”
“A responsibility?” Memories of The Dream of Light she’d had three different times over the years came to mind. The Dream seemed so different from the dark presence of the temple. What a contrast the light was to the cold bronze statues lining the path to the temple’s portico! The opposite of the cult prostitutes and fertility ceremonies she’d heard about from Nympha. The light had comforted her even as its warmth assured her that her choice to avoid the temple was the correct one. The voice in the dream had spoken only once, but she remembered the exact words. “All who fashion idols are nothing. They shall be terrified. They shall be put to shame together.” And honoring idols was the purpose of the temple.
Why had she forgotten that earlier today? Even though she hadn’t dreamed about the light for months, now that she remembered again she marveled that her resolve had wavered so easily. The Dream usually occurred when she weakened and was ready to succumb to the evil. Why hadn’t the light helped her this time? How had she come back to her senses without The Dream?
Oh. Because of Noah. She thanked him inwardly.
“Why are we responsible to vile gods? The God of Noah doesn’t demand lewd acts,” Atarah stated matter-of-factly, more for herself than Mother.
“You’re right. The God of Noah doesn’t demand lewd acts.”
“He doesn’t command child sacrifice, either.”
Mother dropped the hank of purple yarn. Snatching it from the floor, she cleared her throat and resumed work. The nape of Mother’s neck reddened and she reached into the large basket of wool on the floor beside her. Drawing out black and maroon she held them on either side of the purple. “You’re right.” Mother spoke slowly, her voice husky, and Atarah wondered at the deep sadness in her eyes. “The God of Noah won’t allow child sacrifice.” Her hands trembled.
“So I’ve thought maybe . . . ” Atarah’s voice trailed off. Dare she confess she’d been considering serving Noah’s One True God? “I heard Rizpah say she prays to the God of Noah on the Seventh Day.”
“Lots of people do.” A rueful smile crossed Mother’s face. “Haven’t you ever heard the proverb that says, ‘If one god can give you a barley cake a hundred gods can provide a feast?’”
Atarah flashed a cursory smile. “Maybe I could just worship Noah’s God once a week.”
Mother’s hands stopped and she shot a warning look at her daughter. “Have you forgotten what people call our city?”
Though Atarah hated being questioned like a child, she answered without complaint. “City of a Thousand Gods.” The obedient daughter for the first time today.
“And you know it’s treason to worship only one god. Besides,” Mother’s face grew even more solemn, “the God of Noah won’t accept your prayers if you worship other gods. He demands complete devotion.”
Hopelessness threaded into Atarah’s heart again. She bent over to rest her cheek on Mother’s head and closed her eyes, breathing in the floral scent of Mother’s gray-streaked hair. “Maybe I could worship Noah’s God and the moon god. He seems a lot like Noah’s god. They’re both unseen. Both require self-denial.”
Mother’s shrugged almost imperceptibly as she resumed work. “They seem alike at first blush, but the moon god encourages violence and hatred.”
“Did you know I sometimes pray to the light from The Dream?” Atarah mused as she swayed with the movement of Mother’s hands. The familiar rocking comforted Atarah, transported her back to her childhood for a moment. “Why do you pray to Gug?” Though Mother had given young Atarah little intentional time, she always allowed her daughter the comfort of leaning against her and chatting as she worked.
“When Gug is pleased we have food and shelter and peace. When he is angry we all suffer,” Mother answered simply.
Atarah sighed. “I suppose I should honor him?”
“Should?” Mother stopped working and gripped Atarah’s forearm, her eyes searching the younger woman’s face. “Should?! You mean you didn’t?”
Shame muddled Atarah’s thoughts. “I couldn’t. Crazy Noah was there and…” She stopped mid-sentence, feeling somehow disloyal for referring to Noah as crazy.
“Your father . . .” The fear in Mother’s voice left Atarah dizzy. “I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out.”
Father’s voice boomed through the open doorway. “What I’ll do is make Atarah sorry she ever thought about defying me.” He strode toward his oldest daughter, face crimson with rage. “You think me stupid?”
Atarah straightened, her heart tattooing warnings.
“I knew you didn’t have the courage to behave as a responsible adult so I sent Dagaar to watch you.” The sneer on Father’s face chilled her. “Concealed himself quite well, didn’t he? I told him this was a test; your last chance to do right. I had to know if I could ever trust you. I told him, ‘Don’t force her. Don’t let her see you. Give her enough space to reveal her true character. If she fails me she will suffer the consequences.’”
Atarah breathed carefully. In through her nose and out through her mouth. Slowly. She’d known for a while that Dagaar reveled in the power Father allowed him over her. But he wanted more. The slave wanted her in the fullest most horrible sense of the word. He wanted two things: her body and her place as heir to Father’s fortune. He’d been worming his way into Fathers affections for years with the intention of manipulating Father into giving Atarah to him as a wife – as chattel. Dagaar had flattered Father and seen to his every whim long enough that the slave had good reason to believe he would soon receive his reward. Once she belonged to the slave, power over her life would switch from Father to Dagaar.
Father literally shook himself like a dog shedding water. Shedding his daughter. “You disgraced me again. Ran from the temple like a worthless dog.” He could strike her dead if he wanted to. Right here. Right now. And he looked furious enough to do it. Killing her would be perfectly legal, even expected. No one would blame him. Atarah herself wouldn’t blame him. She had dishonored him.
He slammed a fist into his palm and she tensed, remembering past beatings. Her eyes darted to Mother. The older woman stood with downcast eyes.
“Don’t look to your mother for help.” Father’s eyes bored into her. “I asked for one temple visit and you couldn’t even manage that for me?” He sent a chair crashing across the room. “Is this the thanks I get for spoiling you? I let you live in luxury…” He stopped, fists clenched, jaw muscles working, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to my reputation? This will cost me dearly. I could lose my business.”
She knew he spoke truth. She’d hurt him badly.
Father continued to glare at her, his eyes flashing fury. Time crept by. She forced herself to meekly return his gaze. Simply glancing away would be read as a sign of rebellion and increase the danger.
“Are you trying to destroy me?” For a moment he seemed almost to plead with her. “Don’t you like living in a beautiful home and wearing expensive clothes?” Father waited as though expecting an answer, but the look on his face demanded silence. She hung her head submissively, hoping compliance might give him a measure of satisfaction and appease him.
Finally, Father exhaled loudly. “Well?” he demanded. Now he expected her to say something. The life or death crises had passed.
For now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Why had he stopped short of physical violence? What punishment did he have in mind for her? The thought froze her blood.
Without a word, he strode to the door before turning back to point at her. His voice, suddenly calm and strangely cold, chilled her. “You refuse every eligible man in the city then try to lay claim on Nympha’s child. You choose not to have children of your own; Gadreel already has a mother. And Gadreel has a slave to care for him. He doesn’t need you. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t belong to you. If you want a child so desperately, have one of your own.”
He stepped closer, his forefinger jabbing her chest with each word “Stay. Away. From. Your. Sister’s. Child.”
Father strode from the room. When he slammed the front door behind him, Atarah caught a brief glimpse of Dagaar leaning over the second-floor railing, his black eyes glittering triumphantly, the serpent tattoo on his neck bouncing as he laughed. Mother quickly closed the door, but Atarah could still hear him chortling. He lapsed into a bout of wheezing, then his malevolent laughter again echoed through the entry. He didn’t appear to care that Atarah and Mother could hear.
*****
Atarah fled from the broad back door of her home and flung herself onto the grass near the slave quarters that stretched parallel to the house across the back of the property. Though a tall hedge hid her from anyone spying on her from the top floor, the thick stone wall enclosing the estate blocked her view of the outside world. Her home -- the fortress Father built to protect the family years ago -- felt like a prison today. Even the grape arbors and decorative trees and bushes she’d loved since childhood offered little comfort.
She lay on her stomach in the garden with her face on her arms. Sobbing.
On one side of her, a dragon fountain dominated a shallow pool encircled by a low ledge. On the other was a court paved with multi-colored mosaics depicting stylized palm trees and cavorting unicorns. Fragrant red and purple flowers fronted a yellow-marble wall separating her from the slave quarters. The wall was lined with arches that led to a breezeway. The summer kitchen where slaves cooked for guests occupied a large section in the building beyond.
Atarah liked to come here on hot days when water shot from the dragon’s mouth. She would sit in the mist, head back, eyes closed, long coppery tendrils curling around her face, wet clothes clinging to her, a half-smile on her lips. The water sounds mingling with the undertones of slave-chatter and the scraping of metal utensils on pots from the kitchen behind the wall never failed to calm her.
Except today. Today not even the aroma of roasting game comforted her. And today the fountain trickled, as though the underground springs dotting the city held their breath, waiting to see what would become of the city’s rebellious daughter.
Atarah heard a whisper of silk and Mother sat beside her in the grass. The older woman reclined on one elbow, massaging her daughter’s back. “Beautiful, beautiful Atarah,” she said outlining circles with her fingers. “Gorgeous shiny hair.” She wound a strand around her finger.
Atarah sat up and hugged her knees. Mother handed her an embroidered linen square to blow her nose.
“I always loved your enormous blue sapphire eyes.” Mother’s warm brown eyes crinkled into a smile.
“Didn’t you mean to say my ‘red enormously-swollen eyes?’”
Mother smiled gently, ignoring the comment as she idly traced around her daughter’s chin and across her forehead. “I remember when my skin was creamy and roses colored my cheeks. Just like yours.” She gave the slightest shake of her graying head. “That was a long, long time ago.”
“You’re still beautiful, Mother.” Atarah squeezed the older woman’s hand.
“You’re sweet, but we both know I’m aging.” Mother smiled sadly.
Instead of arguing the point, Atarah turned her attention to the dragon fountain. “Don’t you find water in a dragon’s mouth a bit ironic? They’re supposed to spew fire.”
Mother chuckled and moved closer to the pool where she could dip her hand in the water. The aroma of fresh bread floated over from the kitchen. After a few moments she murmured. “Don’t think badly of your father.”
A white butterfly fluttered around the lavender alyssum growing from the cracks between the fountain and the tiles. Atarah watched it flit from clump to clump. “The way he treated me. . . .” The familiar lump of bitterness lodged in Atarah’s chest.
“He’s under so much stress right now.” Mother kept her eyes focused on the wake her fingers made as she pulled them through the water. “Business is bad.”
“How am I supposed to respond to that?”
“He consulted a medium last week.”
Atarah rested her forehead on her knees. “Did he now?” She couldn’t keep sarcasm out of her voice.
“A lesser god he’d never heard of appeared and said, ‘The sky is thick and filled with water’.” Mother slowly shook her head. “Made no sense.”
Noah had predicted water from the sky! What did it mean? Of course the earth itself was full of water. The mist rising from the ground on cool nights proved that. But there’d never been water in the sky. How could water stay up there without falling? The whole concept defied logic.
“Your father fears we’re on the brink of a food shortage. Plus, Rizpah told him Noah is harboring giants and planning to turn them loose on the city.”
“How could Noah keep something like that a secret?” Atarah could feel her positive feelings for Noah draining away and the old fear replacing them.
“It must be true. Ten of Rizpah’s slaves ran off because of it. With no one to bring in the harvest her oranges rotted on the trees. Plus we haven’t completely recovered from the locust infestation. Food prices tripled and still haven’t come down. Nobody is buying the luxuries your father sells,” Mother said. “And you know how frequent the earthquakes have gotten.”
Atarah knew.
“That’s why your father’s so temperamental.”
Temperamental? Talk about an understatement.
“He was desperate for you to do go to the temple for him because he’s afraid of losing everything.”
Atarah’s attitude toward Father began to soften. He had asked her to do something that seemed small to him because he saw no other option. “I’m being selfish.” Atarah didn’t really mean the words and hoped Mother would disagree with them.
“No. You did what you thought was right. Your father and I taught you to stand up for yourself.”
They had? That wasn’t the way Atarah recalled her life. “He said I’m spoiled.”
“He’s disappointed and afraid, that’s all.” Mother dripped a line of water along the top of the wall surrounding the fountain. “I’ll talk to him. He’ll understand.”
Understand? Who was this man Mother spoke of? Certainly no one Atarah had ever met. She’d never experienced her father that way.
“You know he usually calms down after he’s had a while to think things over,” Mother said. “No matter how bad things look right now, he loves you. There isn’t another man in the city that would let his daughter get away with what you’ve done.”
That last part was true. “I know.”
Mother plucked a sprig of Alyssum and absently twirled the flower beside her cheek, a strange dreamy expression on her face. “Your father is a good man. He loves me. Did you know that?”
Mother’s words surprised Atarah. She did not believe her father loved her mother. Father bedded women -- all sorts of women -- young slave girls, temple prostitutes, even a few older women like Rizpah. He made no secret of his activities. Gug expected all the men in town to produce as many offspring as possible and it was common practice for men to ravage the slaves who prepared the meal as the culmination to a dinner party. The elders of the city needed children to sacrifice to the gods in troubled times. Her own father, who she once respected, participated. She’d been unable to protect her own personal slave girl.
Atarah hated the custom.
“Did you know he loves me?” Mother looked directly at her daughter, demanding an answer.
“I . . . the way he treats you doesn’t feel like love to me.” Atarah had always assumed that men who took part in those abominations had no capacity to love. She had often wondered how Mother could bear living with Father. Had his actions hurt her? Or did she go numb after a while and not think about it? Atarah had never dared ask.
“He broke my heart.” Mother answered Atarah’s unspoken questions. They were sharing a rare moment of intimacy. “After Nympha, I couldn’t bear more children. Did you know that?”
Atarah nodded, but Mother stared blankly into the distance. So Atarah cleared her throat and answered. “Yes.”
“That’s when the men of town started really pressuring your father. Men who fail to produce children are as useless as barren women. We would have been ruined if he hadn’t slept with other women. No one would have done business with him. The elders ‘strongly suggested’ he take more wives. But he promised me I would be his only wife, and he kept his promise.” The pride in Mother’s voice was unmistakable.
“I used to be afraid he might send you away,” Atarah admitted.
“Most men would have, but not your father. He loves me.” Mother lifted her chin, tears gleaming in her eyes. “We’ve had three hundred years together. He’s listened to me before and he’ll listen to me about this. I just have to think of a way for him to save face with the elders.”
It was Atarah’s turn to stare with unfocused eyes. “I dream of a man who will love only me and never touch another woman as long as we live.” Where did that come from? What a ridiculous thing to confess! Pretending she intended her words to lighten the moment, Atarah grinned.
Mother lightly touched the tip of her daughter’s nose. “Sweet, beautiful dreamer.”
“And I want him to think all other women look like warty brown toads.”
Mother laughed and kissed her daughter’s forehead before returning to the house. Atarah stayed by the fountain, enjoying the evening breeze that blew loose strands of hair around her face. At the sound of a child’s giggle she leapt to her feet, alarmed. A child with dark curls peeked at her through the blossoms of an orange azalea. “Gadreel !” Atarah whispered.
The child tumbled from the bush and crawled eagerly to his aunt. She opened her arms with a welcoming smile. His slave-nurse followed close behind. “Shua!” Atarah scolded. “You shouldn’t have brought him here! What if someone sees?”
To learn why Jeannie does not consider this book fantasy, check out her blog
http://jeanniestjohntaylor.blogspot.com/
http://jeanniestjohntaylor.blogspot.com/
